Millions Knives

"I wasn't aware we had more to discuss," he says, feigning aloofness. His eyes are still downcast toward the crude doll of Vash.

"safe!" it chirps again, in the very same cadence, when his thumb rubs up against a cotton-swelled cheek.

Instead, it rings hollow inside of his mind.

It's as deafening as the bullet that had cracked through his skull.

" I have been informed of the duplicate's existence. The Crimsonnail and I have crossed paths since my arrival to the island, " Legato drones, hands in the pockets of his coat, fumbling with whatever contents had been left there.

" -- And I intend to leave him well alone, he is none of my concern, master, " he remarks plainly, lidding his eyes and turning his head to glance back at the door from whence he came.

His quarters. If it was anything similar to the dilapidated ship that Knives occupied on their home planet, then he knew what to expect.

The comment slides past Knives' lips with little thought as he pushes himself up from his seat. One step forward, one step back. Even as he now actively tries to choose kindness, cruelty still comes to naturally to the plant.

"Come," He commands as he strides past the human, though he knows the human would follow at his heels without being told to. Knives also knows Legato needs no direction. As expected, the way to Legato's room is familiar. Not exactly the same, but close enough that memory alone should be sufficient for finding most things on the Ark. The only real difference is the addition of more utilities like a functional kitchen and a domed garden.

If one were to ask the weed, however, it would gladly speak of how comfortable its roots were while entrapped beneath the pavement, for it knew not of its brothers who called loamy soil their home.

Legato only understand the world through that very same lens.

He expects a metaphoric hand to reach down and strike upon him for his uselessness. Instead, he's greeted with an open palm, but this wild animal does not know how to react to such a gesture. So he stands there, face pale, obscured by long locks of blue, silent for what seems like forever.

" You-- "

Religious indoctrinate had been an effective way to reign in a beast like himself. He could follow commands. He could carry out orders. But when his master states that the objective has been-- tossed out, and now asks if he would have a problem with laying down his weapons--?

It barely leaves room for him to comprehend that Knives had admitted to failure. Such an inconceivable thing to hear.

" No-- No of, of course not, I have no problem with what you ask of me, not now, not ever, " Legato stammers, trying to temper himself.

He bites the inside of his mouth until he tastes iron. Pain was always effective at grounding him. Legato looks away before continuing. This was a lot for a meek creature such as himself to digest. His voice trembles, attempting to quash his emotions.

A pause as he considers that, that might be a little more information than the human can process at the moment. Ah, well. Better to overwhelm him now than have him be set off by finding the other plant roaming the halls.

His fingers handle the doll as though it is some alien object, capable of breathing or biting at any moment. As his fingers pinch its nubby blue left hand, he lifts it up higher to the light, away from the other trinkets.

Eyes narrow, teeth partly revealed in a displeased snarl. It looks… Nothing like his brother. Not at all the way he should be. It is a grotesque beady-eyed effigy of him, something rounded and soft and harmless. Manufactured. A miniature incarnation of everything wrong with him.

"He's willingly gifted you this?" His condescending disbelief is tinged with jealousy. Then, after a beat of silence, he readjusts his hold on it. Fingers nudging against its oversized head, the thing chirps "safe!", much to Knives' displeasure.

"He and I are on good terms," Knives answers the question he believes the other implies, "And, as I said, there was an exchange. It wasn't one sided."

It takes a few shuffled steps before he fully processes the other's intent to leave. A knot begins to form in Knives' chest. A feeling it's been quite some time since he's truly felt: possessiveness.

With no one around to see it, Vash promptly smacks himself in the forehead and lets his hand drag down his face. The one time he hadn't actually been going for a joke, and he goes and sets himself up like this. Incredible. Maybe Knives is the funnier twin after all.

Um, he starts. Should he even attempt reaching for a punchline? Even if it were suited to the occasion to do so, he's not even sure he could really find one at the moment. Or if he did, if it would even be any good.

Apologetic brother?

Perhaps he expected-- more. Nothing grandiose. Not even warm. Not a proper welcome, even. He did not anticipate any of these things.

Yet, the flat delivery of the question, brings-- something to the surface, something that Legato cannot name, or properly acknowledge, but it makes his shoulders stiffen.

Perhaps he wished that his master cared that he was able to get here at all, given the circumstances as he clung onto several measly strings both physically, and mentally. Legato looks across the dim room with an equally flat and hollow expression, first noting the dark hue of Knives' hair, and swallowing down the shock so that it didn't manifest on his face.

" . . . "

What did he have to report on?

Success.

He forced the hand, and made the empathetic protector of humanity know how it felt to take a life.

Failure.

He failed to eliminate Vash the Stampede. The bullet to the skull was evidence, shot and taken out like a dog that had been struck on the highway.

Failure. Failure. Failure. And now he didn't even have the full range of his ability to be useful.

" Nothing of significance since coming to this place, Master, " Legato eventually speaks up, unable to look him in the eye as he mutters.

" I-- have lost the majority of control over my abilities. I don't understand why, or how, or when all of this happened, or why you are even here-- " he begins to ramble, and then pulls in his anxieties. There was no use for that.

A light frown tugs at the corners of Knives' lips with that thought as it's quickly followed by one considering that this was, perhaps, how others from their world viewed him. Something to be examined later, perhaps. Much later.

"I appreciate your abstention; to let me attend to my matters as I see fit. …Rest assured, it was a very calculated risk, with more than satisfactory results."

If human filth were so keen to steal Vash away from him, to taint and wound him, then Knives was obligated to protect his brother by any means—even if it involved laying his own life down.

The way that Spiralian "death" had been explained was enough to put the option on the table, and worth prioritizing over the easy slaughter of the Punisher. Humans were such emotional creatures, so easy to manipulate. There was no doubt in this being another crucial success toward his larger schemes; now, Vash's loneliness would be harder for him to deny.

Knives' pale fingers haven't stopped idly rubbing at his new all-around neck scar as a result of this: like a choker, thick tissue remained wrapped and gnarled in the same pattern of his knives, despite the clean cut.

It's rare that Knives thought to explain himself to anyone, let alone imply he's in a subordinate position to anyone else, but if it was going to be anyone, who else would it be but this older self?

He's housed him, kept him informed of the ways of this new world, and kept out of his way. At the very least, he's owed respect.

"Just another step toward realizing our…" Trailing off, his legs uncross from his seat, leaning forward to point beyond the other Knives' shoulder. His eyes narrow at a familiar-looking object sitting on a shelf, before returning his squint to his predecessor. It sits besides a pair of novelty Groucho glasses. Bizarre.

No, all Knives does is give a quiet nod of acknowledgement. As much a statement of accepting it as recognizing the weight of the statement. A sign of respect that he doesn't dwell on it or force the plant to prostrate himself any more than he already has. It's sign enough that the gentle handling of his counterpart has born some fruit as far as trust is concerned.

What he won't let lie is the statement of steps. Or, at least, he wasn't planning on it until the other's attention is drawn away and towards something else. Confused, Knives turns and his eyes settle on the Vash plush. Ah.

This happiness is hollow and rattles through him like a derecho through an abandoned building, but it is enough to prompt Legato to crawl out of his apartment for the first time in days; he hardly recalls how he responded to the text message:

[txt] Right away, yes Master Knives.

The directions were simple to parse. His master had always been a no-frills individual, making orders and requests easy to fulfill. It was the route that was rather-- confusing. In the weeks since Legato's arrival to this alien place, he could hardly make any sense of the island's geography. In an almost miraculous divide between one reality and another, Legato finds himself in a much more familiar sort of topography.

Desert sands burn his face as he approaches what looked to be the ARK. But how could that be possible? Legato had learned that for every answer he received on Spirale, two more questions appeared.

And, just as a phantom would abruptly materialize, Legato meanders the halls, his boots creating a faint echo with every connection into the steel flooring.

The joyous sentiment would, unfortunately, be clouded with an irritating anxiety: he suddenly becomes aware of every single little ache and pain in his body, and with that, he recalls the intensity of his master's wrath when he had first disobeyed.

Was Millions Knives going to enact that same wrath, after discovering that he had yet again, made an attempt at Vash the Stampede's life, before he fell, and the other Plant's gun was pressed to his skull?

But… there's also wisdom in having Legato come to him. With his master as his focus, regardless of the era, it should reduce the human's inclination to get distracted by other matters. Having him at the ARK rather than some random district also reduced the potential for harm, should he have any adverse reactions to anything Knives might have to say.

That gets Knives dwelling on the past, present, and future. How much as changed, how much is left to change, and what could potentially be lost. By the time Legato does arrive, Knives is exactly where the human expects to find him.

"Come in." He commands flatly.

Inside, Knives is sitting slumped in a chair, one elbow resting on an arm of the chair, his cheek pressed against a closed fist. His expression as hard as it is distant. Despite all Knives has gone through, he's slipped right back into that cold persona. No doubt looking exactly as Legato last saw him, with the exception of his jet black hair.

"You made it." Knives comments, as his gaze lazily trails over to the blue-haired human. It's unclear to him, even with scrutiny, when the human's from. It could be before his revival or closer to his final moments, given that he's up and walking on his own. Unless, of course, the Stars were kind enough to return that ability to him. Knives tries to see if there's any sign at all. A wrinkle or a scar, but the longer he looks, the more he realizes how little he ever cared to really see his disciple.

Still, shouldn't Knives know that assassins under the Eye are relentless? When they hunt you down, they'll go to any lengths. They won't stop until they find you.

"Funny thing to say about this hunk of scrap metal," he retorts. "How much blood's been spilled here even without me?"

But that's not what this is all about.

"I have little doubt that you will leave this place and make your mistakes. It is in your nature," He continues, giving the human an unimpressed, half-lidded stare. Almost as if he were looking through the man, rather than at him. There's a lot of things that Knives could do to slow Wolfwood down, if not stop him, but, unlike the other man, he's unwilling to accept the consequences any of those things might come with.

But Wolfwood doesn't particularly give a shit.

Knives must still think he's an idiot. Wolfwood rolls his jaw. He's not here to fight this one, he's looking for the other one. Whether or not this guy tells him where the other guy is doesn't matter, Wolfwood will find him anyway. Would just be easier to get a better idea.

He's sure the younger Millions Knives is anticipating his arrival, anyway.

"I need to talk to him." They both know that's bullshit. More like he's got a score to settle. "You got any idea what the hell he's been up to? He been talkin' to ya about it? Or do I gotta tell ya?"

He cuts the engine of his motorcycle and hops off. With his weapon, there really is no question as to why he's here in the first place. Righteous fury and vengeance and whatnot.

Wolfwood didn't tell anyone where he was going. Hopefully this guy can keep his trap shut. Or his mind. He and Vash have that freaky telepathy shit going on, don't they?

The Ark is a looming, foreboding presence. He never comes out this way, all his trips to Umber have been to visit the younger Stampede and the undertaker. On this island he only has one memory of the Ark, and it isn't pleasant.

As if any of his other memories of the Ark back home are any better.

When the door opens, Wolfwood peers at Knives over his sunglasses. He puffs out smoke from the corner of his mouth, and without preamble he says:

"Where is he?"

It's with that bratty sense of annoyance that Knives answers the door. Only to have his expression immediately flatten to a tight, but neutral affect when he sees who it is and what he's carrying. Memories of a similar, unaddressed, scene flash through Knives' mind, but he's quick to shove them in the same corner of his mind that he forces away any unpleasant emotions.

"That's a very vague question," Knives hums with a dismissively haughty tone as he leans his shoulder against the door frame, and crosses his arms. "My brother? His doppelganger? Or should I be concerned about one of your shadows yet again?"

Master, I am sorry.

The blank, white walls of the apartment bedroom surround Legato while he sits on the provided bed. He had made no attempt at personalizing the space, for he was still convinced that this was all a complex delusion before finally falling into the recesses of the afterlife.

I failed.

In this vermin-infested existence, you had given me a second chance, and I failed.

Ah. I had hoped that you would had been the one to kill me. You would had accomplished the task, and gifted me a proper execution. Whatever your brother has done--

I do not know if I am dead, or alive.

Nearly a month had passed since his eyes snapped open in this strange city. Legato had shambled around like a fawn with broken knees, though that was not an unfamiliar sensation for him. Despite what he had learned about the island of Spirale, he felt as though he knew even less about his current predicament.

Through observations of human behavior, Legato had learned that the device he had found on his person was used for communication between two parties. Handling the 'smartphone'-- what an atrociously strange name for it-- was awkward, but it was a necessary function for acclimation into this 'society.'

Today, he switches it on.

" Messages, " Legato says flatly to himself as he opens the inbox. Many nonsensical texts and emails had been sent to the device. Business promotions. A crude 'welcome' message, a pop up video that makes him jump slightly--

And a familiar name of a wicked savior.

There, on the pre-programmed contact list, nudged between different names that he different recognize, was him. Millions Knives.

" . . . "

He was here? Why?! Had HE failed as well?! Impossible--

The shaky digit presses onto the name, and he is given two options: Voice Call or Message.

Calling his master after such a pathetic display did not seem appropriate. Legato had vivid memories of the last time that he had abruptly reunited with Knives after disappointing him-- he could not shake the sound of every last bone in his body shattering, rattling between his ears. A suitable punishment for his insolence.

A 'message' seemed more apt.

One single sentence is sent out:

Legato Bluesummers Master Knives. Are you..

When he gets the text, all Knives can do is stare at the notification. Another headache. One that was clearly and more solidly his responsibility. Probably. Given the evidence so far, it seems like roughly a fifty-fifty chance to be one who is his responsibility and one who is his doppelganger's, but even then Knives would still feel like he shares some responsibility.

[txt] I could ask the same of you. [txt] Find your way to me, and do not keep me waiting.